


into the depths

by SwordDraconis113



Series: Muddy Waters [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordDraconis113/pseuds/SwordDraconis113
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daphne hadn't meant to take the know-it-all with her. That had been an oversight, one she would need to fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update tags as I write this. I have a pretty good idea in what I'm writing towards and how to get there. Bear with me here.

Daphne was lead down the long hallway, past painted generations of Malfoy witches and wizards. They looked down at her, whispering and ducking through their portraits as Mister Nott directed her deeper into the underbelly of the manor. Daphne didn’t listen to the portraits. She listened instead to the click of her heels on the wooden floor, softened by the emerald rug that extended down the hall. 

Under her robes, she could feel her wand, slid up her sleeve. She would need it, Mister Nott had assured her when he’d taken her from dinner. Daphne didn’t question why. She rose, against her sister’s protests -- quickly quietened with a look from Mr Nott –– and allowed herself to be apparated to the manor.

The Malfoy Manor was dark; only the spark of _lumos_ and floating candles lit their path. There were no windows in this hall, not even bewitched ones to give warmth to the home. In the distance, a golden light spread out from a doorway, far, on the left. Shadows flickered along it and as they grew closer, she could hear a voice, indistinct, whispering.

She drew in a breath as Druella Black stared down from a large portrait, at the end of the hallway. Her hooded eyes looking down a long nose.

“Your father’s a coward,” she spat. “Dishonour on the Greengrass name.”

Daphne turned her head away, holding a placid expression to feign deaf to the woman’s words as she was taken to the Malfoy formal dining room. In truth, the words gave her something to expect.

As the door creaked open, everyone turned to face her as Mister Nott took his place in one of the goblin-made dining chairs. Daphne quickly glanced over the room: Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy flanked either side of their son. Bellatrix was on Narcissa’s other side, grinning widly. Crabbe and Goyle sat opposite the dark wood table, beside the Lestrange brothers, and Lord Voldemort stood at the head of table, behind the spine of his chair, where Daphne’s father sat, sunken in the seat like a slack puppet.

Daphne clasped her hands behind her back; as her eyes caught her father, she dug her nails into the palm of her right hand and breathed in. She couldn’t let a tremble escape her, she was better than that.

She bowed, first to Lord Voldemort and then to the Malfoy’s. Bellatrix snickered, but made no further comments, instead turning to eye her with interest. 

“Do you see that?” Voldemort spoke, lifting her father’s head to see her. “Your daughter knows where manners are. Well done.”

He was pale, her father. His eyes were red and sunken in his face. The muscles over his jaw were slack. Never before had Daphne ever seen even a hair out of place from her father, and here he was, near-death.

She dugs her nails in harder.

“Tell me, dear girl. What do you feel for your father?”

Daphne stared at her father before then drawing her eyes up to Lord Voldemort. She could feel him in her head, like fingers searching through a cabinet. _Don’t lie_ , she thought. Voldemort just stared at her. 

“He’s made a mistake,” she answered him. “He has brought shame to our household.”

Lord Voldemort chuckled low behind closed, thin lips. The Death Eaters, too, laughed similarly and it seemed to Daphne that the sound trembled through to the marrow of her bones.

She remained quiet, her expression unchanging even as the butterfly seemed to drop as her father stared, hollow and vacant. 

“Have you ever cast an Unforgivable Curse?” Lord Voldemort asked her.

Daphne felt blood spill beneath her nails. “No, my Lord,” she answered.

“Have you seen one cast before?”

“Yes, my Lord. In my fourth year at Hogwarts.”

He smiled at her then and Daphne knew what was to follow soon. “Ah, yes. Barty Crouch Junior had such promise,” he said. “It was a shame what happened.”

“Yes, my Lord.” She answered. She had both liked and loathed Professor Moody at the same time. The latter had been towards his outward polyjuiced appearance. When she had discovered, by gossip, whom he had been, she’d been left uncertain of her feelings. He had been their best DADA teacher, until Severus. His treatment towards the student body had only served to hold his cover.

“I see you’re not at school,” Lord Voldemort said.

“No, my Lord. My father decided homeschooling was the best option.”

“I see. Do you think your father is better than the teachers at Hogwarts.”

“Some of them,” she answered. Voldemort made a show of looking surprised.  

“Is that so?” he said. “Well then, let’s see how well your father has taught you.”

A tremble escaped her control. She shifted the bloody hand, dragging the palm against the spine of her cloak before digging her nails further up her arm. “What would you like to see, my Lord?” she asked.

Crabbe and Goyle, both, had leant in to see the excitement to follow. She watched as Lord Voldemort stepped away from her father and gestured to him. “How about a fair punishment to your father?” he decided. “Show me how well he’s taught you.”

Daphne looked into her fathers eyes and watched as he muttered and whispered, shaking his head. She closed her eyes, thought of Astoria and drew out her wand. 

Drawing in a breath, she glanced to Lord Voldemort and watched his red eyes stare, a smirk on his face. She made her decision, then. 

Daphne pointed her wand to the end of the table, hissing the word with every inch of anger and hatred she had towards her father, “Crucio.”

The green light crashed into his chest. Her father convulsed, and then cried out, his scream breaking through his throat as agony twisted his limbs. She held her weapon, pushing and pushing the anger. 

Until, “That’s enough.” 

She dropped her wand and drew in a breath, looking to Lord Voldemort. His smile was no longer directed to her, but to her father. “That,” he said, “it was I expected from you: absolute obedience. Perhaps I should have your daughter finish the task?”

Her father whimpered, his eyes turning to look at her. He pressed against the chair, murmuring rapidly under his breath and Daphne turned away, catching Draco’s eyes. His eyes were wide, just as sunken as her own father’s, just as red, just as scared of her.

“Remove him,” Lord Voldemort said. Nott rose and hoisted her father to his feet, half dragging him out of the room. Daphne didn’t move. She stood impassive, staring into the emerald velvet of the chair, feeling nothing wash over her. There should have been something. Some shame, guilt…enjoyment, perhaps? There was _nothing_.

“Lucius, call your house-elf to set up a room for Ms Greengrass. I expect she’ll be staying here for a while.”

Lucius nodded, whispering hoarsely, “Flinter.”

The house-elf appeared with _pop_ , shivering –– no, shaking –– as it looked up to its master with grey, watery eyes. “Yes, Master Malfoy?” it spoke with a wheezy-high voice as its ears hung low, shivering with fear.

“We have a new guest staying with us. Set up a room for her.”

Flinter looked from Lucius to where Daphne stood. “Yes, Master Malfoy,” it said, before disappearing with another _pop!_

Daphne watched as Lord Voldemort gestured. “Narcissa, I believe I’ve interrupted the young girl’s dinner. Perhaps you should take her to the family owl so she may writer to her mother and send my sincerest apologies.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Narcissa rose from the table and Daphne watched as her hand brushed against Draco’s chair. She walked over with a tall back. She was dressed in beautiful blue robes, with her hair pulled back from her face. Her expression was much smoother and practiced than Daphne’s as she walked over and lead them both out through the hall where Druella’s portrait hung.

“Hmmph,” was all Druella said.

They walked in silence, until they reached the foyer where a large, dark wooden staircase stood. “Upstairs,” Narcissa directed. Daphne nodded and began walking up the tall, grand staircase. On the wall, at end of the grand stairs before it split into two seperate staircases, there was a great window expanding across the length of the wall. 

A great, velvet curtain had been pulled back, to allow the moonlight to spill over the stairs and slip over the perpendicular walls. 

Daphne’s eyes caught the landscape outside of the window. The Malfoy gardens were prominent and rich. In the dark, she could see an enchanted maze where something moved through it. Great flowers bloomed underneath the stars and dangerous plants swayed in the night breeze. In the centre was a water piece that Daphne could not yet make out.

“You will survive, it’s in our nature,” Narcissa spoke. Daphne turned to look at her. The woman’s expression hadn’t changed, as if the words had never been said.

They didn’t speak again.


	2. One: Quills and Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius raised a brow, “And what could you possibly have to offer to us?”
> 
> “Nothing. I’m quite after something from you, in fact.”

_Astoria,_

_Please tell Mother not to worry, I’ve arrived safely. Madame Malfoy has had a room set up for me while I’m a guest. As you can understand, the Dark Lord has graciously allowed me into the Malfoy Manor during his stay –– an opportunity not to waste._

_I’ve seen father and it is as we feared, he has betrayed the Dark Lord causing repercussions on the family name. I will remain here to save our good name and show the Dark Lord the respectability and loyalty we, Greengrasses, are known for. While I’m here, you should continue your holiday to the countryside, I fear that this war is making Mother’s nerves frail, the countryside will offer her a break from the terrible news of the mudblood defiance in the Daily Prophet._

_All my love,_

_Daphne._

 

Narcissa Malfoy had, for a long time, closed the gates to the Malfoy Manor so that only authorised visitations were allowed entrance. Only recently had the gates opened up again, with reporters having run off to bait at other headlines and unwanted visitors long-since moved on from their grudge. 

At her arrival, the ivy vines that curled over the gates had shivered, sending a warning back to the Malfoy residents as she entered through the curling wrought-iron gate. The gargoyle statues  sitting on cement beams did not bar her path, aware that intentions were innocuous at best, but their ruby eyes stared at her, giving warning. 

Instead of heading to the entrance, she had followed the stone path, around to the back of the manor and wandered down the loose pebbles to where the familiar maze stood. It was as large as she remembered, as tall, and with just as strange noses whispering from far within its recesses. 

The flowers had blossomed over the four metal archways, leading into the maze. There was no telling if they were just decorative or if something sinister was charmed in their pink petals until they decided to strike. She stared at them, wondering if the Malfoys would have been so bold.

Her last memory of the maze had been of the metal arches twisted with barren wood. Now, bright green leaves, alit almost golden by the sun, had burst from the plant. 

Daphne knew that there were dangerous plants in the gardens. Things that snuck up and wrapped their vines around your legs, things that pulled you into the mud or entangled you in the maze. There were things that killed you, hurt you, trapped you and she had seen them all in action. 

Daphne had watched as Lord Voldemort, all those years ago, had sent muggles to flounder in the maze. They had screamed and cried, begging until the last moment struck. She had watched it like a twisted version of the final Triwizard Task, struck with the thought that Lord Voldemort was aware of the image. Had Crouch…?

The flowers fluttered as a few bees buzzed around, despite the late-spring breeze that knocked them around the flowers. As one landed on the bud, the petals opened wider, allowing the bee to settle on its eye. 

“Neither Draco nor your sister are here.”

Daphne turned to face Lucius Malfoy. He was a tall man whom fitted in his dark robes well.  His hair, now greying against the white blonde, was tied back from his face. In his right hand, he gripped a silver cane, using it to lean against as he looked down at her. Daphne knew better than most what scar stretched along the hand clutching that cane. 

“I didn’t come here to visit your son,” Daphne replied. She studied the minute changes in Lucius’s expressions. He was tired, despite his proud demeanour. “I came to speak to you and Madam Malfoy.”

Lucius raised a brow, “And what could _you_ possibly have to offer to _us_?”

“Nothing. I’m quite after something from you, in fact.” She looked up at him, keeping her lips unmoving from the straight line it resided in. There was something odd about her mouth, its asymmetry had lead it to always tug to one side, giving the appearance of sinister intentions regardless of if such thought existed. She had learnt how to smile with her eyes, to use the blue to distract from her mouth.

“You didn’t strike me as someone foolish.”

“You haven’t heard what I have to say,” she said, tilting her head up at him. “I wish to hear yours and Madam Malfoy’s story. Preferably with the both of you, but I will agree to seperate conversations.”

“For your little book, I take it.”

“Yes, actually,” she said. “Have you heard of it?”

“The entire ministry reads your…” he smirked then, staring into her eyes. She heard him adjust the cane, smacking it against a stone. “Decidedly small articles in the Daily Prophet. It was not difficult to presume your intentions.”

Daphne didn’t inch her expression either way. She knew he was going to be one of the more difficult people to convince. “Draco has already given me an account of everything he knew of his own time, but I would prefer first-hand information.”

“Of course,” he mocked, still smirking at her.

Daphne stepped away then, turning to eye the maze once again. It was quiet with Lucius’ presence. “At the end of my work,” she began, “I will hand over the finished copy to yourself, as I will to all other participants. If you’re not happy with what I will have written, you may re–“

“No,” he sighed. “I don’t care what you have to say.”

“If you would let me finish ––“

“No, Miss Greengrass. I will not give you some war stories to win back your family fortune with.”

Daphne didn’t flinch as she turned to face him once more. “My book is not for profit. All proceeds will, of course, be going to Hogwarts’ funding for disadvantage children. Scholarships for the dearly orphaned children of the war, so that they may afford their robes and schoolbooks and have equal opportunity as some of the other students.”

“I see,” Lucius grimaced. Daphne stood up sharper, clasping her hands behind her back as a breeze past between them, fluttering loose strands of their hair. It was oddly quiet, now. Not even birds sang from the trees. Though, Daphne conceded, she didn’t remember if she’d ever seen any birds, aside from Lucius’ albino peacock. 

“There is nothing you have to offer me, Miss Greengrass. I suggest your return to your apartment, as it were.” A flash of pride struck at her heart, but Daphne continued to stare unfazed by the Elder Malfoy.

“Of course,” she said after a moment. “I just thought I would express my invitation to you and Madam Malfoy, as it may look strange to some people of the public if you were not part of my ‘little book’, _as it were_. Especially since both the Dolohovs and Nott family have enthusiastically agreed to speak with me and will certainly be discussing you.”

“And what could that possibly do to change my opinion on the matter?”

She smiled up at him. “Theodore Nott has spoken about family dinners he was apart of during the summer of his seventh year. Miss Desdemona Dolohov, a cousin, spoke of a particular conversation pertaining to an invitation to a town, out in Wales. And of course, Nikolai spoke of his work with Fenrir Greyback. He was quite enthusiastic in some of his recounts of what happened just before the Ministry was taken over by ––”

“That’s enough,” Lucius said, a scowl curling on his lips “Perhaps you should speak with Narcissa. I’m sure she has much to place in the novel.”

“I would prefer all the Malfoy’s. After all, it will make you appear more sympathetic to the public.” She smiled at him, showing off her teeth. “If you would agree, that is.”

“It appears I have no other option then.”

“Excellent,” Daphne said, pulling out her notebook from the pocket of her robes. “And what time would be best to speak with you, Master Malfoy?”

“Sunday. However, it is my understanding that Draco will be coming to dinner to announce his engagement to your sister, so it will have to be lunch, then.” He smiled at her, looking sharply into her eyes. Daphne smiled back him. 

“That sounds perfect,” she said writing it into the notebook. “Well, until then,” she nodding her head in a short bow, once more. “Good afternoon, Master Malfoy. Thank you for agreeing to be a part of my book.”

“Next time, Miss Greengrass, I would prefer an owl.”

Daphne laughed shortly. In purposeful precision, she pulled a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. “Don’t be absurd,” she said with a prominent smile. “You and I both know that if I did indeed send a letter, it would burnt in an instant. Besides, this way we can talk face-to-face. It’ll be far more honest, don’t you agree?”

 _There_. She watched the mask crack in that moment. “Goodbye, Miss Greengrass,” he said as the knuckles on his cane turned first to red then to white. She turned away from Lucius Malfoy,  following the pebbled path to stone as she circled around the front of the manor.  

She stopped halfway down the path leading to the front entrance to glance back. Up on the second floor, to far left, there was glass window that was clear and unbroken, unlike her last memory of it. The curtains were drawn back to allow light to filter into the room, no doubt down by Flinter –– if the house elf still remained working there.

She remembered that room well. It was, after-all, where she had made the first of many decisions that lead her to this point. 

Daphne continued her path to the gate and apparated away from the Malfoy Manor. 

 

 

 

Daphne arrived in Diagon Alley, besides the stone structure of the Daily Prophet. The building had neither reduced nor grown in size, despite the painted sign in the front window reading:

 

RENOVATIONS COMPLETE

COME AND SEE THE NEW

DAILY PROPHET!

 

She eyed the sign carefully, wondering who in the higher ups decided that _that_ would draw in people to the Daily Prophet museum, giving them a couple of knuts on the way out as whatever sucker decided after all “Yeah, I’ll buy a Daily Prophet, today.”

A small crowd bustled down Diagon Alley, wandering from one spot to another. People came from the Leakey Cauldron and clamoured around the entrance. Younger groups pressed their noses up against Weasley’s Joke Shop, their breaths fogging the glass until either their parents could drag them away or they bolted inside to play with the new products. A few couples made their way down to the cafe’s near Gringotts, where there was a two for one special on hot chocolates.

It wasn’t yet the crowd of parents dragging their children to go shopping for uniforms, but it was close enough that a few parents had decided to begin the early shop of new robes, quills and parchment.

Daphne drew in a breath, looking up at the white clouds above the shops. She had enough time that she could probably get a snack before returning to her desk at work if she wanted to. She had expected to run into Narcissa Malfoy rather than her husband at the Malfoy Manor. Convincing Narcissa to allow Lucius to sit down and talk would have been a far more arduous task than convincing Lucius Malfoy. 

Narcissa didn’t take kindly to manipulation.

Pulling out a few sickles from her pocket, Daphne headed over to a nearby food store where a young man her age was serving customers. He probably went to Hogwarts, and had probably been a Hufflepuff, going by his demeanour. He had dark, curly hair, brown eyes and  warm, brown skin. He also wore a bright, gleaming smile that seemed infectious to the customers before her.

Daphne followed social protocol and etched a polite smile onto her face as she ordered her food. The man eyes pinch curiously at her in response. “Sorry?” he said, after a moment of silence.

“Just a  sandwich,” she said again, her voice warm like honey. “If you have any left?”

“Oh! Of course. Sorry about that. Is chicken, okay?” 

“Of course.”

He was courteous and smiled, though he stared at her curiously as she waited for her food. His eyes darting to her every time a customer had finished ordering, handing over their sickles and knuts. 

It was a cute little café. The server charmed the coffee’s to each table, a certain flick of her wand allowing each coffee to gently float and place on the table neatly. There was a dishcloth going around, wiping away crumbs as people bustled around, umming and ahhing over if they would sit in one of the wooden chairs and tables, or if they would take their food to-go.

No one really paid any attention to her as she glanced over today’s issue of the Daily Prophet, laid out for anyone to read. The headline was a dull political eye-catcher that at least offered information, even if it wasn’t a money-grabber headliner like the Daily Prophet used to be, during the Second War.

They were, of course, still in the pockets of the Ministry –– as most newspaper are –– but there wasn’t much information to give. The best they could hope for was a scandal. 

When Daphne’s order was called out and handed to her, she asked him, “Is there something on my face?” Though she knew there wasn’t. The most-likely-a-hufflepuff guy was still staring at her oddly.

“Sorry, you just look really familiar.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I work for the Daily Prophet,” she explained. “I do some articles in the back about upcoming bands.”

“Ah, that must be it,” he said, nodding to himself. It wasn’t, her photo had only appeared once in the Prophet, long ago. But it made it easier to lie. 

“What’s your name?” she asked. 

“Peter Dickory. Ah, Pete, I mean. Sorry.”

“Well, Pete, it was nice to meet you,” she said and watched as his name bloomed over his face. “I’ll see you around.”

“Have a good day, then! I’ll look out for your photo next time, yeah?”

She smiled politely, having no answer for the insipid Hufflepuff charm. Merlin, he _had_ to be a Hufflepuff. Or a Gryffindor, they were always eerily happy in a mundane job. 

It was a shame, though. She had enjoyed the food’s quality at the café. There was always the ice-creamery though. Otherwise, she was going to have to start bringing in packed lunches to work. Or go home in her lunch break. 

Taking her food, she walked up Diagon Alley, holding her food. She didn’t eat in public. She would go to her desk, and have her back to everyone as she ate in the privacy of her small cubicle. 

She walked past the sign, pushing open one of the double wooden doors leading inside the Daily Prophet. She passed through the public space, giving an expected wave to Nathan at the front desk, before pushing through another door to head up the stone steps to the second floor. A  white sign with red lettering read: “Authorised Personal Only” on the door as she pushed through it and opened up to a hallway. 

As she walked down the hall, she politely smiled and nodded, heading to where her desk was, in the far corner, down two turns of the hall and next to the bathroom.

Rita Skeeter sat atop the corner of her desk, flicking through her parchment notes that had previously been neatly rolled up together.

Daphne glared at her before regaining her composure. Walking along, she pulled out her sandwich and placed it on her desk, sitting down in her seat carefully before turning to face Rita.

“What are you up to?” Daphne asked.

Rita’s eyes lit up. “I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you,” she said. 

“On my lunch break?” Daphne pulled out her notebook, tapping her wand against a locked drawer to open it before dropping her notebook inside. She didn’t trust Rita Skeeter, didn’t particularly like her either, but out of the rest of the staff, she disliked Rita the least. “Do tell me soon, won’t you Rita?”

“Hpmh,” Rita answered, crossing her arms against her chest. “No need to be _rude,_ dear. I only came to give you some good news.”

Daphne smiled to her then. “Of course not, I was merely stating that I am short for time and will need to return to prepping for my _enthralling_ interview with that new Australian-Witch band, the Yowie Hunters, as you are aware.” It was a whatever band, on the up and rising. Still very underground, still learning how the real world was. Merlin, they were younger than her.

“Yes, you do tend to be side-lined to puff-pieces, don’t you?”

Daphne didn’t allow her expression to let on about the bitterness in her throat. She knew _why_ she tended to be handed the puff-pieces and how it had everything to do with Timothy Welts, the current head editor of the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter may have guessed; any one of the staff might have, but no one said a word to her, at least.

“Well, all of that’s a thing of the past. You’re going to _France_.” Rita grinned at her, all teeth and red lipstick. “Pay-your-own-way trip, of course.”

“Lovely.”

“And I get to take over this…charming little puff-piece.” She pointed to the half-edited notes about the Yowie Hunters. Fluff pieces she had taken from some recent issues of _Australian Witch Weekly_. 

Daphne looked from the pieces of parchment to Rita Skeeter. “What’s the article in France about?” 

“Oh, it’s big. Very big. An interview with the one-and-only Miss to-be Weasley!” Her hands dramatically separated, as if revealing the name on a grand sign. “You two were little school buddies, weren’t you?”

“Hermione Granger?” Daphne blinked. She hadn’t paid much attention to the girl’s love-life, truth be told. But the _Weasley?_ Pansy had been right, after all. 

Merlin.

“That’s the one, the _Golden Girl_ or whatever.” Rita shrugged, pretending to be flippant as if she didn’t know every little detail about Hermione Granger. Daphne was on the mindset that Rita had been looking for _dirt_ on the ‘one-and-only’ Miss Granger over the past few years.

Rita’s motives for switching the article must have had something to do with Hermione, as she doubted the woman thought that one of the Golden Trio was worth switching for a not-even-middle-page puff piece for Wednesday’s paper. “She’s doing some ‘amazing’ Magical Animal Rights law changes or something with the French Embassy. I don’t know, go ask Jones, she’ll give you the run down.”

“What’s the catch Rita?”

“No catch,” Rita smiled. “I just thought you had been side-lined enough with these dear, little pieces in the Prophet.”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed, leaning close to Rita. “You and I both know that neither of us does _anything_ without it being in our best interest. So tell me, Rita. Why do you want my interview so bad?”

Rita looked at her. “I don’t want your interview. I want _off_ the Granger one and you’re the only one I could switch with. She and I don’t get along very well.”

“So?”

“She’s refused to meet with me. No meeting means no interview means I get shut off to the shit end. I refuse to be in the shit-end with _Marnie Prictor_.” Rita glared off into the space before snapping back. “Look, all you have to do is interview her and write up some nice piece. And I’ll admit, her work, though dry, _is_ quite significant. The readers will eat it up.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course,” Rita said. “Unless helping a friend, counts.” She smiled a wide smile that didn’t reach her eyes, giving the impression of a crocodile.

Daphne rose from her desk, her lunch abandoned as she walked down the halls again, this time to the far left of the building to where Agnieszka Jones sat underneath a large window that looked down at Diagon Alley. She had a stack of books to one side of her desk and neatly, unrolled parchment at the top of her desk. In her hand she held an expensive quill with a bottle of ruby ink. Everything was, as usual, precisely so and in its place.

Agnieszka sat in her chair, bent over her desk, sorting through old Daily Prophet clippings. “What can I do you for?” she asked, looking up from her purple half-rimmed glasses. 

“Rita informed me that I’ve been placed on the Hermione Granger article.”

“Did she now?” Agnieszka turned in her chair, to where the pile of books were and pulled out the charmed list she held. Written on it had everyone’s assigned projects with their name written neatly beside it. Down the bottom had a small grouping of “other” projects: crossword puzzles, filler-ins to dot around the main articles and the sports section. Each of those had names listed beside whom was filling out how much and where. _Daphne Greengrass_ was written tidily next to “Yowie Hunters: 300 words, far left, page seven.”

“Well, it’s not signed off on.”

“Will that be a problem?”

“Only if you fuck it up.” Agnieszka reached into her drawer, flicking through the filing system before she pulled out a parchment-thick file. “This is everything you’ll need to know by six p.m. I’d suggest booking a portkey by three, they tend to fill up fast.”

Daphne’s eyes flicked from the thick file to Agnieszka. _Six p.m. today_ , she realised. Bloody Rita Skeeter. “I see,” she answered the woman. “Is that the time I should be interviewing Miss Granger?”

“Quite,” she said, looking at Daphne with vivid scepticism. “Can I trust you on this?”

“Of course,” Daphne said, using her honey-warm voice on the woman. “Hermione and I were in the same year at Hogwarts, I’m your best candidate for the article.”

“Is that so?” Agnieszka said, her expression unchanged. “The article is expected for tomorrow morning’s paper. It’ll need to be finished by midnight tonight.”

“Wonderful,” she replied dryly. 

“It’s a front page article, expected to continue on page six. All of that is in there, of course.”

“Of course,” Daphne said. She took the file, glancing through the thick, dry contents about the change to werewolf law –– ah, Daphne realised, looking over the parchment –– Hermione Granger, her previous achievements and, oh Merlin, dating life before coming to _Ronald Weasley_. This was a tailored article for Rita Skeeter, meant to hook in easy-to-upset readers.

Rita Skeeter had moved back to her own, lavish, desk and was writing with gusto as Daphne came over and dropped the parchment-thick prep-file down.

“Absolutely _not_ ,” she said.

“What?” Rita said, looking feigning aghast. “I’ve done all the work for you!”

“This is a slander article tailored to you.”

“Nonsense. I don’t get tailored articles. Only the big five, do. You know that.”

Daphne stared down at Rita Skeeter, hissing between her teeth, “The specifications are for a headliner to pull in money –– a headliner about her engagement with Ronald Weasley that apparently hasn’t even happened yet.”

“So? It doesn’t mean it’s tailored for me. You could just as easily write such a story, you know. Plus, if you write it as well as I could, _Witch Weekly_ may even buy it.”

“Unlikely,” Daphne glared. “What the hell kind of dirt has Hermione Granger got, that has you dropping out last minute from a goldmine?”

Rita rapped her red, sharp nails on the desk, her eyes narrowing in thought. “She has dirt on me,” was all Rita said, waving her hand. “It’s in my best interest that I _don’t_ write about the girl.”

“Of all the absurd ––“ Daphne scoffed, shaking her head. “If you knew that, why did you take the article?”

Rita sighed. “Because I thought I could make something go away before she could use it, but I _can’t_ , at least not for another six months, anyway. Bloody ministry bureaucracy.”  

“I see,” Daphne snipped. “And what can _you_ give me for this article to disappear from you?”

“The fame of the article isn’t enough?” she said. “Most journalists would be jumping at the chance to write for one of the ‘Golden Trio’.”

“But they’re _not_ because no one would take a last minute _headline_ article specifically tailored for _you_.”

Rita frowned. “You’re right, you were my last choice.”

Daphne continued to stare at her. “Give me something, Rita. Or I tip off Timothy Welts about this and you get slapped with the consequences and I continue on interviewing the Yowie Hunters.”

“I don’t know, I could still do the article in a pinch.”

“Fine, do the article in a pinch,” Daphne said, making a turn to leave.

“But,” Rita called for her. “I really think that you deserve a chance to be in the headlines. Timothy is just _mean_ to you, after all.”

“Give me something, Rita. And I’ll make this disappear.” 

Rita Skeeter pursed her lips, before her face suddenly lit up. “You know, dear, I’ve got just the thing for you.”

“And whatever would that be?”

Rita rapped her nails on the desk, a smile curling over her lips. “I know what you’re doing. Who you’re skulking around and talking to.”

“My work is hardly a kept secret,” Daphne replied. “But it’s unconnected to the Daily Prophet, as you well know, so I don’t see how you can blackmail me with it.”

“Oh no, I would never consider that! It’s just that I can give _you_ an interview. That’s all.”

Daphne paused, considering the deal. “With whom?”

“Mundungus Fletcher.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “What would he, of all people, have to offer me?” Daphne knew _of_ Mundungus Fletcher, only because she had interviewed people about his scamming tactics in an old interview, early in her work for the Prophet.

Rita Skeeter was smiling at her again. “Didn’t you know he was an Order member?”

Daphne pressed her lips, her thoughts shifting carefully through what she knew of the man.  It seemed _possible_ , she supposed that the Order would use him. Underground knowledge would have been helpful. She supposed that if it was a waste of time, then she could just leave. It was a win-win situation. “How soon can you get me an interview?”

“What are you doing next Monday?”

“Depends how _early_ I’m expected to be somewhere.”

“I’ll owl you the details after I arrange everything,” Rita said before she picked up her quill and dipped it into the ink pot she had. 

Daphne turned away, smiling as she returned back to her desk where she picked up her abandoned sandwich and thought about it. It would probably be for the best if she didn’t eat until the interview, it would be more useful than having a full belly. 

She set the sandwich aside and looked up to where the large, metal clock rested next to an empty portrait.

It was only a quarter past one. In an hour she would book a portkey to the French ministry  before going home to change until something more upstanding for an interview. Practical. Hermione had always been _practical_ from what she could recall.

Daphne picked up the prep-file, mostly devised by Rita Skeeter and filled with absolute shit like Hermione’s “romantic” relationship with Harry Potter, her “affair” with Victor Krum. Krum apparently still mourning Hermione even though he was happily married in Bulgaria and had retired quietly wealthily, only the other week. 

Merlin, Skeeter.

Still, Daphne thought, she was looking forward to the interview. She’d been waiting a few years for an opportunity to speak with Ms Granger. The last memories she had of her, had been at the graduation ceremony. Hermione had, of course, been Head Girl through that year, and had received the top NEWTs, as everyone had expected. She’d smiled politely as Minerva McGonagall congratulated her, and had spoken about surviving and all that warm-fuzziness after the war.

But Daphne had seen behind that mask, had seen Hermione clutch at her arm, had seen her grab her wand at any sudden noise. She’d heard her whimper in the classroom through DADA and smile tightly any time someone asked her “how did you do it?”

It wasn’t going to be an easy task, Daphne knew. She would have to approach Hermione differently than she had to everyone else.

Well, she was looking forward to it, at least.

 


End file.
